Sherlock Holmes rarely slept. His brilliant mind was too busy processing and deducing to switch off, and John rather got the impression that Sherlock thought the world would do something idiotic like blow up if he wasn't alert and awake to babysit. On the occasion that the Consulting Detective did eventually fall unconscious, usually in his long suffering chair or at the table face down on his notes, John would be considerate and try not to breathe too loudly or think too hard in case he was heard. He had learnt to fold himself onto the carpet and quietly immerse himself in a book, wincing slightly at the regular flutter of a page as it was turned. It was one such occasion, on a dark and typically broody English day, when the clouds hung suffocatingly low, the world was dark and the air was thick with anticipation of the long overdue storm. The flat was almost silent. The only sound was the whisper of the words chasing each other and jostling for room in John Watson's head as he devoured each page of an engrossing novel, and the steady measured breath of Sherlock Holmes, who was reclined in his chair, jaw slack, eyes rolled back in his head, concealed by heavy lids. He deserved this, John mused, this peace. The case had been long and strenuous, with an infuriating chain of dead ends and misleading alibis. Sherlock had of course feigned total control of the case, which John had been pretty certain, was a feat of commendable acting on his part. The deafening placidity was broken by the violent and somehow intrusive vibration of Sherlock's phone which lay on the side table. Sherlock stirred in sleep, his eyelids fluttered but remained closed. John dragged his limbs from under him, and stood as a crippling bout of pins and needles stuck him. He hobbled pitifully across the room and groped for the phone, checking the caller ID. Mycroft. He sighed inwardly, knowing this would mean more running around, and also having to deal with a grumpy Sherlock when he finally roused him. His thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt by the click of the infamous British Army Browning L9A1 somewhere near his temple. "Put, the phone, down." Sherlock slurred.
"What?" John choked.
"Hang up. It's my brother. Hang up now." Sherlock repeated, articulating clearly. John sighed, tossing the phone more forcefully than intended into his friend's crotch. "OW." He retorted indignantly. Sherlock scrutinized the phone before clicking it off. He didn't set it down, instead letting it hang loosely in his slender fingers before the phone began to buzz persistently against his palm for a second time. He sighed dramatically and hauled his lanky form out of the chair, swooping into the kitchen in his dressing gown before answering the call. John fought to still the papers that had been stirred by the sudden waft of air as Sherlock skulked around the room. "What?" He spat venomously into the phone. John could detect the measured and patient tone of voice Mycroft seemed to reserve purely for speaking to his younger brother from his position on the floor. After a brief conversation which included many scathing remarks of inadequacy on Sherlock's part, the detective disappeared into his room, reappearing fully clothed. John had barely had a chance to compose himself before Sherlock ushered him up off the floor and out the door. John was just able to tie his shoes, earning him an impatient glare from the form that loomed behind him, tapping its foot. Sherlock snatched John's coat off the hook on the back of the door and herded him down the stairs to the street.
It had been three days since John had met Irene Adler. Overall there had been no visible change in Sherlock's mood but John suspected he was happier than he let on. The case consumed most of the day, and even though John complained about the running, he was secretly delighted by the quickening of his pulse and the adrenaline singing through his veins, the thrill of the chase.
The pair returned doggedly to their flat at nearly 8pm. John led the way up the dark stairs, but paused on the landing as he noticed a strip of soft honey coloured light pooling outside their door. He didn't remember leaving a light on, and waited cautiously as Sherlock caught up with him. Sherlock dragged himself up the last few steps, but as his foot struck the next his body became ridged and frozen as he noticed the light outside their front door. With noticeable glee he skipped the last steps, shoving his friend to the wall, and threw the door wide.
There she was, the single point of brilliant light in his life. Like a star growing stronger and more dazzling in the dark and desolate void of space, until all Sherlock could focus on was her. Irene Adler was reclined in Sherlock's favourite chair, her feet kicked against the mantelpiece. She cradled in her hands a battered copy of Jane Eyre, and twirled a lock of her silky dark hair in her fingers absently. Sherlock advanced into the room as casually as he could muster, swinging his coat over the coat hook. He looked ill at ease in his own living room, and stepped with restraint, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. "Hello." He ventured. John could hear the smile in his voice though he had a view of the back of his friend's head. "Hello." She replied, glancing up from the book and fixing him with her delicate brown eyes. Swinging her legs gently down to the threadbare rug, Irene crossed them over her knees and steepled her fingers thoughtfully, as John had seen Sherlock do so many times before. He wondered briefly if this was Irene mocking her lover or instead if it was a mannerism that Sherlock had picked up from her. "I did a little breaking and entering." She spoke at last, giving a flirtatious little smile. "You were out so long you see, and I couldn't bear to wait any longer." Irene rose from the chair, and danced lightly to Sherlock's side. "I hope you don't mind" She purred, taking his hands and stretching up to press a teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, which was pulled into a wide smile. "Not at all" Sherlock replied, his voice a little gruff.
"I thought we could go out a while." She said happily, leading him into the middle of the room, pressing herself against his side as he encircled her waist with his arm. Suddenly Sherlock had lost all trace of the fatigue he had been displaying earlier. John stood awkwardly in the hall, shuffling his feet. "Of course you're welcome to come too" Irene added warmly. "A handsome Doctor like you is sure to have a lovely lady to accompany him on a beautiful night like this." He acknowledged the complement with a small smile, and looked to Sherlock for approval. Sherlock nodded in agreement, "Invite Sarah John, I know she'll be thrilled." Satisfied, John dug in his pocket for his phone, unearthing the layer of fluff and grit which lined his pocket in his search. He pulled the phone out, triumphant, and then he asked, "Wait, where are we going?" He scanned the faces of the two as they moved across the room to the sofa, blissfully unaware of his existence. Sherlock turned, "Who knows?" he said with a grin.
The Thames rippled and writhed in the submissive secrecy of the night. The streetlamps gleamed off the wetted road as the two couples navigated the labyrinth of back alleys of London's dark and intriguing moonlit hours. When the sun set low on the industrial horizon, the city became a different place. Sherlock allowed himself to be led through the night around the city he had mapped so flawlessly in his mind. With Irene, they didn't just see the city, they experienced it. The ebb and flow of the waking world, snatches of long forgotten songs and enticing music poured from the pubs and clubs along the Southbank. Soon they were lost in a city that was still valiantly fighting the impending dawn, exhilarated and exhausted, battling sleep, not wanting to succumb to the weight of their heavy limbs. Irene flitted between illusive bars where twisted people with sordid secrets nursed poisonous drinks in the shadows cast by the soft glow of artificial lighting. Each patron with their own stories, missing limbs and split personalities paid no heed to the four figures weaving through the throngs to the bar. They passed undetected, invisible ghosts in the lives of the emotionally dead. These were her people. They weren't good people, honest or trustworthy, but they had stories to tell, dangerous secrets and broken promises which were worth more than any normality they could bestow on those who would sit and listen. They had out lived their lives and worn out dreams, Irene would talk with these wandering souls until her hunger for knowledge was satisfied, and the first light of the breaking dawn split the horizon, and life was restored by the arrival of the new day.
Sarah beamed at John from across the sticky table where they were seated in a claustrophobic pub none of them could remember the name of. Her hand searched for John's between the table legs and grasped it in her own. She caressed his calloused hands with her fingers, smoothing the wrinkles and smiling into his eyes. Sherlock and Irene spoke in hushed tones in the corner of a cracked leather booth. Sherlock reached a hand behind his neck and mussed up his hair a little as he spoke. It was a common action John was used to, Sherlock did it when he was thinking, like he was trying to stimulate a small significant part of his brain. John hoped Sarah wasn't too uncomfortable, but she seemed at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings amongst the shady people crowding the bar.
Irene sat with one leg tucked underneath her slight body. She wore dark jeans and a fitted chiffon top the colour of dried blood. She was stunning. Sherlock observed the way she held herself, her head raised intuitively, like she was scenting the air, such as a proud stallion would do. She tossed her mane of silky brown hair, and fixed him with a critical gaze. "You're quiet" she mused. Sherlock said nothing, but appeared to be analysing the room with a slight frown. Irene began to relay the information she had learned about the intoxicated individuals of the pub. "That lady there was the lead in a glamorous Broadway show. A former lover framed her for attempted murder." She paused for a moment, scanning the room, bright eyes darting from one familiar face to the next. "The man seated at the bar there-" she smiled sadly to herself, and pointed unashamedly towards the person in question "he fell in love with a prostitute in Thailand in 2004. She was killed by a client the night he left." Sherlock's gaze came to rest on the hunched figures as she reeled off the information she had memorized so flawlessly. "Lost custody of his kids in divorce, gambled his life away in Monaco, sacked after sleeping with her boss, daughter died of cancer, her husband left her for her sister."
"Why do they tell you this?" Sherlock said at last, turning to face her with a quizzical look on his face. Irene studied the line of a frown on his smooth forehead, the curve of his gentle lips which were set in a firm line. "Because I listen." She said simply. He remained in quiet contemplation, waiting for her to elaborate. "I think to them, I'm just a patient shadow, lending an ear." She looked dubious for a moment. "Sometimes hearing about how someone else has lived their lives and what they're experienced, what they regret, the mistakes they made and their happiest moment turns out to be the perfect cure for indecision in your own life." She clarified. Sherlock reached gingerly across the smooth leather until he found her hand, entwining their fingers, running a thumb across her knuckles. He smiled, because he understood. Outside the air was cold with the frost of early morning. They had talked for hours, the four of them seated around that table in the grotty pub. Sherlock observed the way John acted with Sarah, he was relaxed and he joked and laughed and stared adoringly into her eyes, drinking her in. He didn't know much about relationships, with anyone but Her, but Sherlock knew enough to see how John felt about this woman.
It seemed as though the whole world was still asleep, stumbling bleary eyed through the Sunday morning haze. John had taken Sarah home a few hours ago, tripping from inhaling the crisp heady air into their frozen lungs. They had got into a cab, but Sherlock had, as usual, noticed everything, such as the fact that John didn't have enough money for the ride home. Sherlock slipped him the rest of the fare.
Irene Adler regarded the Thames with a quiet contemplation. Her slender legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. Her fingers laced together over her stomach. Sherlock watched her in fascination, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, and the way she was unconsciously pouting slightly. They sat at almost opposite ends of the bench which sparkled with frost in the weak sunlight that filtered through the clouds. "Where did you go, Irene?" Sherlock said suddenly, shattering the silence. "Peru." She answered a beat too fast, as if she had been expecting the question. Her gaze never wavered from the rippling of the grim water against the bank. Sherlock nodded, like that made sense of it all. "I never meant to leave, Sherlock." She said earnestly, feeling the cool wet dew on his coat beneath her fingers as she touched his arm. Sherlock sighed, tipping his head back so his hair was dampened by the varnished wood. Her brief contact was a release from the stress and tension building inside his chest. The warmth of her presence coursed through him, like the buzz of nicotine in his veins. He closed his eyes. "It's very late, or I suppose, very early." He said, standing and turning to face her. They were both obviously tired, but too proud to show it. Irene drew her legs under her and rose from the bench. Sherlock offered her his arm and looked delighted when she slipped her hand through and took gentle hold of the inside of his elbow, resting her head against his broad shoulder. The heels of her scuffed leather boots sounded against the cobbles, echoing through the near deserted streets as they strolled away from the churning waters of the Thames. She suppressed a shiver, her jacket was thin, but his was heavy and warm. She knew he had noticed, yet he didn't offer her his, she was glad of this, she couldn't deal with being patronised like a weak little girl. "Will you stay this time?" He said into her hair. Sherlock breathed deeply, inhaling her fragrance. He detected citrus and liquorice among other things, as well as something unmistakably Irene, the scent of adrenaline, of passion, long turbulent nights and interrupted dreams. "That depends on the circumstances. Perhaps, but I won't settle down, you know that." She said firmly. His silence said more than he could put words to. "This life is all we have, and some people will never live it, and that, Mr Holmes, is the saddest thing of all." He drew her closer. The sun split through the clouds and bathed them in a light so dazzling it lit their eyes like a million stars, and for a second it seemed as though the world had stopped turning for this moment, for these two people, and the next chapter of their story.